That Which We Destroy
by alexis.jay
Summary: The Rapture. An angel slowly breaking, a war overcoming his every motion. Through the wrath of Heaven, Castiel is forced to cut his sympathies. But is a sense of humanity so easily destroyed?
1. Chapter 1

_Short Author Note: I'd like to take a brief moment of your time to apologise for a lack of second chapter in my "Road Ahead" potential series. I had fully intended (and begun) a new chapter, certainly. Though due to major arcs in story development, as well as characters being killed/changed drastically, I found it hard to continue the way I was planning to do so. I'm sorry to have dissapointed those who had been anticipating what could possibly happen next. Though as I hope you understand, it's very difficult to write for such a complicated series, as each episode brings with it massive changes to predicted character development. (: _

_Please note this fic is set after episode 'The Rapture'. (Season 4, Episode 20), after Cas is 'reprogrammed' in a way, during his absence. I wrote this as a reassurance to myself. A short character development experiment, justifying him in my own mind, I guess. Please review, I'd love any critisism you could provide._

Castiel. Even his name sounded funny to him.  
Given by an unknowable lord who he could never understand. A father who hadn't had any direct input onto him. Not through personal contact, anyway. As he walked, he thought of who he had been. Disobedient and wrong, doubting his beliefs. He could not be that way anymore, never could he sympathise or understand. This led to doubt, led to a lack of _faith. _He scarcely believed what he could have been thinking for him to have done so. Dean Winchester was not his friend, or his brother. He supposed that at times he had willed him to be. Wished for a connection that could not be had.

Castiel was breaking. Dean Winchester, he knew, was breaking. This war had destroyed the undestroyable, stripped heroes from their pedestals and hung them up to dry. Things were not going to plan on either side, faces blurred together showing nothing but bloodshed and hate. He knew that even under Lillith's rule, this was not the best thing.

A small dog yapped in the distance, and Castiel almost smiled. Just days ago, he would have felt discomfort at the noise. An almost human annoyance at the mere disruption of his thoughts. This was where he had gone wrong. Let his atmosphere, his surroundings, rule him - when he had come to Earth for the sole reason of doing so to them. It now seemed idiotic to him, for influences from an inferior world to construct his reactions. His, _emotions, _which he had allowed himself to have. He watched the beige trenchcoat -a constant reminder of his failure- sway in the early evening breeze, frowning with contempt. He stopped for a moment to stare at the ground. He didn't think all that deeply, or have any relevations. Castiel simply studied the textures and patterns of the pavement. The levels, the imprints. Human influences on their surroundings. If the creator of this road had swerved from his path just a little, others would be walking on a different construction. This was, in theory, the example his superiors had given him. Being that his role in life was to construct the lives of others, to serve God on _his_ path. Deviating would cause histeria, leaving holes and issues with the path created by their lord. This is the road he had to follow now. He had deviated terribly, and was told that _this_ was one of the factors leading to Heaven's downfall in the battle so far.

Without realising, he was walking again. He liked to walk, it made him feel as though he was doing something useful, in a time when he was not. There weren't any orders from his lord, no real missions or seals had cropped up anywhere they could detect. The Winchesters were held up somewhere. It was his job to know where and why, and yet he couldn't bring himself to discover. He knew for himself that they needed the time to deal. He knew that Dean was not coping well with the news of his brother's betrayal, or the recent lack of moral support from himself. His recent rediscovery of faith had not altered his perceptions, only the feelings tied to them. He knew from a practical standpoint that neither Sam or Dean would be any help to them while so logically impaired. They were human, they needed time to deal with their emotional ties. And for this reason he continued to walk in the opposite direction to where he knew them to be - somewhere in Pontiac, Illinois... The town where the entire dabackle with his vessel had occured. He considered that perhaps he may have felt mercy for his decisions toward Jimmy, before. Though found it difficult to understand emotions at all, when he was trying to hard to have none.

He could hear nothing but the sound of his feet patting onto the ground. The small suburb he was in had no real night life at all, and for this he was glad. For weeks he had been avoiding human interaction... smart enough to know that if given the chance, he could sympathize. In the distance, fairly far ahead, he could see a man running with a dog. In a moment of irrational panic, Castiel flashed away. Leaving nothing but the slight rustle of autumn leaves deviated, his small but seemingly insignificant path through the Earth he occupied...


	2. Chapter 2

_Meanwhile,_

His hands flew against the iron walls, his cage. Like a performing monkey. Closed in like a prisoner waiting for execution. Sam was exhausted and horrified... a half man, half demon kept like a heroin addict forced to withdraw.

The hallucinations had started hours ago, starting off smaller and discreet. A small flash of light or something in the corner of his eye. With each moment they grew worse. So much worse. He had cried out his brothers name through the pain, wishing for release. His blood boiled, pain running through it with certifiable lust. The blood, he needed the blood. Running down his throat, warm and thick, soothing the pain. Everything intensified, he began to scream.

The door flew open, cool air filling the room. Sam considered escape, but the pain clouded his judgement. He felt hands, firm and strong, pulling at his sweat-soaked shirt. He heard his name, over and over. Rough, his brother. His eyes scrunched together, he could do nothing but scream.  
_"Dean, Dean! Dean, please!" _he wailed, gripping at the hands. "_Dean, It hurts. Please, i'm dying Dean. Let me out. Help me"_

His eyes flew open. There was no one there.

He had fallen, hallucinated again. His shirt was twisted and saturated, his hair slicked over his face like a mask. Sam wiped his eyes, feeling tears. He wished the cold floor beneath him would open up. Anywhere but here, he wished he could be anywhere else. The sound of music filled the room outside, easily identifiable as Metallica. Sam's head filled with blinding rage. Images of Dean happy and ignorant filled his mind, images of Dean unknowing of his brothers pain. Did he not care at all?

On his feet again, Sam punched at the walls, watching as his knuckles cracked and bled with each blow. Crying with pain and rage and sadness, he continued. He was dead inside.

***

The sound of screams fuelled Dean Winchesters thoughts as he listened. Placed directly outside the door of the makeshift bomb-shelter, he was able to hear every piercing wail that his brother made. Each caused him physical, undeniable pain - far worse than he had ever experienced in hell. At times it took his every effort not to run in there and comfort Sam. Give him all the goddamn blood he wanted - anything to stop the screams.

Suddenly, everything stopped. He got up, hoping to any god that may exist that it was all over. After 2 days of sleep deprivation and torture, he was willing to believe anything. Looking through the iron bars to the cell, he saw his brother lying on the cell floor, sobbing silently. Cold pierced through Dean like a knife... This wasn't right. It wasn't what he wanted. His brother was withdrawing, and he couldn't do anything to help him. With a long, broken sigh, Dean sat back down, as close to the door as he could humanly be.

In the silence, Dean was able to hear the blasting rock music coming from upstairs - Bobby's naive attempt to distract himself from the sounds below. Normally he would have enjoyed the booming beats of his favourite artists, but now he could not help but find disgust in every hook - knowing he would always associate the music with these awful moments. Nothing could distract him from the heaving, painful cries coming from just feet away... the pain on his brother that he himself had inflicted.

He silently wished for Castiel, for his father... for the damn apocolypse. Some need elsewhere, someone to help his brother. Cas could have helped him. Though with a surprising stab of sadness, Dean recalled the last moments he had spent with the Angel. He was ... different. Someone who he did not know or particularly like. Guilt flooded through him - He had been the cause of this. Both his sympathetic personality, and the sudden lack there of. The torture his friend would have had to go through to be 'reprogrammed' would have been horrific, from what he had heard from Anna.

The screams started again, gurgled through vomit and blood.

"Sam. Sam... it's okay, Sam. It's all going to be okay." Dean sobbed, burying his face into his knees. He knew he was lying. Nothing would ever be okay. Never again.

He heard his name wailed through the iron walls, muffled and terrified. He heard the pain leaking through Sam's voice.  
"I'm sorry, Sammy. This is all my fault. I've screwed up again. I should've been looking after you. I should've... I should've done more._ Oh god_, listen to you..."

Dean layed his head against the salt-encrusted door, his eyes blurred with angry tears. Preparing for another night of torment and devestation...


End file.
